


Eat Your Vegetables

by Fayola



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, good life partners, poor adulting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 13:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16119368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayola/pseuds/Fayola
Summary: Making good adult choices is hard, even for giant, billion-year-old aliens.





	Eat Your Vegetables

     They had all scoffed, at first. At how fickle the humans’ immune systems were. Eat this, or you’ll get sick. Don’t eat that, or you’ll get sicker. Stay hydrated or you’ll _die_. But not too hydrated or you’ll dilute your electrolytes and mineral content and **_die_**.

     Oh what a life, they snorted, shook their heads, for your health to hang in such a delicate balance. _Diets_. Pfff.

     And than that whole… cosmic rust. Thingy. Dealie-ma-bob. The one where they all almost died and Sparkplug got a little (justifiably) smug and Ratchet panicked for _weeks_ and forced the entire _Ark_ into a series of intensive physical that had even the most seasoned veterans flashing back to their MEPs.

     The dust did finally settle. And they eventually managed to crack through the new locks to the security office and pries Red Alert out from under his desk. And other than the additions of Ironhide flinching anytime Ratchet spoke in anything more than a murmur and the reappearance of military ration supplement packets, fished from Primus knew what dusty corner of the lower decks, everything went (mostly) back to normal. 

     Alright, so, yeah. Maybe they had gotten a little lax. Maybe certain mecha were blowing off their patrol shifts from time to time. Maybe the lazy stretches of inactivity on the battlefield had bled into inactivity in the training room. And yeah, _maaaybe_ they had ignored that silly little protocol about long-term exogalactic missions and the required supplemental mineral rations they entailed, but it’s not like they had been going _completely_ without, _Primus_. Sideswipe’s zinc and copper dusted oil cakes were a hot commodity, as were Beachcomber’s lithium-infused energon jellies. Though Ratchet – if the shrill whine his engine suddenly took on was anything to go by – seemed entirely unmoved by this justification.

     So. Supplements were here to stay. It wasn’t the most welcomed change, but it was accepted with as much good grace as could be expected from the _Ark’s_ crew.

     That meaning to say, very little.  

     While some mecha took their lumps (literally) without complaint, others took a little convincing and a little more… er. Creative moderation. Like Hound and Trailbreaker, who had taken to lumping theirs together with a jellied energon paste into something Spike had jokingly called “granola bars”. (Many snickers were to follow, the jokes long made about their nature-walks-cum-long-range-patrols given new life.) But the name took, as did their popularity with the crew. They weren’t quite as in demand as the oil cakes, but at least these didn’t make Ratchet’s serpentine belt do that shrieky thing.

     Wheeljack had rigged an old energon dispenser to infuse the less dense minerals straight into his plain midgrade. This had led to some experimenting of flavor combos and a wide spectrum of results. The more successful ones meant the clunky old machine was rarely without a line of expectant users. 

     And of course, Beachcomber still had those jellies. And a few new treats and healthier concoctions that had been… _heavily suggested._

     There were options. 

     But it was also a silently agreed upon pact that if anyone witnessed supplements being tucked under booth seats or spread thinly across dirty trays to disguise the amount remaining or required portions skipped over in the mess line, they kept to themselves about it. There might not be honor among thieves, but apparently it could be found in abundance amidst scoundrels what dare defy the CMO.

     So Jazz wasn’t the only one to jerk his head up in surprise at the sound of a – completely _full_ – tray being plonked onto the table in front of him. 

     “Here you go!” Bluestreak chirped, smiling down at the little saboteur.

     Jazz stared blankly at the tray, as if confused. There must have been a mix up, because Bluestreak had just offered to get Jazz’s fuel while he was in the Mess line, of course sweetspark, it’s no trouble, just go save us a seat…

     He finally dragged his gaze up, and whether is was something about the way Blue’s bright smile didn’t _quite_ reach his optics, or the way the sniper still had a firm hold on one edge of the tray, or maybe the palpable intensity with which that sharp, hyper-focused gaze bore into him—

     Well. Whatever the reason, he snapped his mouth shut, physically swallowed his words, and forced a watery smile onto his face.

     “Th-thank you, dear.”

     They were four tables away, but Smokescreen and the twins still stuffed their hands in their mouths to stifle their laughter. (No need to draw attention to themselves. Or their own suspiciously barren fuel trays.)

     “Maaaan!” Sideswipe hissed. “Talk about _whipped._ ” 

     Sunstreaker flicked his hand out, making a _bzzzz **CRAK**_ noise with his vocalizer. It sent his tablemates into another round of quickly smothered chortles.

     “What’s so funny?” Fireflight chirped, sliding in next to Sunstreaker.

     “Oh, it’s –“ Smokescreen choked on an in-vent as First Aid, apparently using Fireflight’s wings to approach in stealth mode, appeared at his side. “Uh. Nuh-nothing.”

     “Had to be there, huh?” First Aid sounded entirely too cheerful. He took the open seat next to Smokescreen and slid a fully loaded supplement tray in front of him, sending the empty decoy skittering towards the end of the table. “Oh well, sorry we missed it.”

     “Yeah, those darn geography jokes…” Smokescreen swallowed heavily, forlorn optics cast down on the tray before him. “Thank you, dear.”

     He mentally made a note to nominate himself for some type of fragging award for not chucking the tray at Sunstreaker’s stupid head when he heard a soft _bzzz **CRAK** _ and a round of near-silent snickers.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote half of this while drunk, and the other half while high on the endorphins of watching Transformers: The Movie on the big screen. Sorry, mostly.


End file.
